


Times Like These

by flowerofsin



Category: Watchmen
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 22:48:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerofsin/pseuds/flowerofsin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vietnam Era. Blake is taken captive and is treated to their lack of hospitality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Times Like These

Through the haze the soldiers trudged, cutting down the enemy that fled amidst smoldering foliage. The sound of his rifle mingled with that of others as Blake picked off the men exposed as they ran out of their hiding places. In the distance, planes dropped incendiary bombs, a carpet of fire spreading through the jungle as they detonated. Yet another burned out area that the soldiers would have to enter to secure whatever survived the resulting flames.

Despite the crackling fire dancing on a tree of to one side, Blake could still hear the cocking of a weapon nearby. He whirled just in time to witness the enemy soldier who had risen up from behind his shelter being torn asunder, his mouth open in a silent scream. The Comedian blinked as flecks of blood spattered his exposed skin. His heart still racing from his close call, he turned to gaze at Osterman who towered above him, glowing brightly against the backdrop of smoke and hazy sky. Jon wore his usual bland expression though his head was canted as if in thought as he gazed down at him. Blake waved a thanks at the other man briefly before Manhattan plodded off on a tangent with a nod, unnerved despite himself as he headed onward. Blake had seen much that would make other men cringe without so much as a second thought, but even he was still leery of Doctor Manhattan, though less so than the other men here. It wasn't for the first time that Blake was thankful Osterman was on their side as opposed to anyone else's.

Heading toward a clearing, the Comedian's attention was taken by a huddle of fellow soldiers. He began to approach the small group of troops who had closed in on an enemy soldier. Their weapons drawn, they shouted at the man to surrender using what little of his native language that they knew mixed with English. The man wore a dark look as he slowly began to raise his hands from his sides. The Comedian frowned, wondering why they didn't just _drop_ the man already, and would have done so himself if he'd had a clean shot through the group of men. As he drew closer to tell the other soldiers just that, Blake noted the strange light to the man's dark eyes, saw the string of grenades on the man's waist, then heard the man shout words he didn't understand as his hand darted for one of the pins. Cursing, Blake turned and tried to bolt for cover as the others did as well, but they were too close to escape the resulting blast. As the shock wave reached Blake, he was tossed, tumbling across the ground to end up in an unconscious heap.

 

*************************************

 

Groaning, the Comedian drew himself toward wakefulness, his body aching but apparently intact. Whatever happiness Blake had at waking up at all was fleeting at the realization that he was in the enemy stronghold. He lay sprawled where he'd been tossed half against the wall of a small makeshift cell. He cursed at his inability to free his hands that were lashed behind his back, the roping chafing his wrists. Frowning, his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Blake noted that there were other such cages nearby that he could see, each containing other prisoners, the nearest of whom were barely conscious.

Blake propped himself up and tried to work his hands free of his bonds despite the bite of the rope into his flesh. He halted the motion at the sound of footsteps and muttered voices that drew closer. He narrowed his eyes at the men who stopped outside of his cell. Two of the armed men grabbed Blake to haul him out while the others trained their weapons on him. He was jostled down a hallway and through an entrance to a larger area of the base. There was a low table behind which sat an older man, likely whoever was in command of this unit by his style of dress and deference the others seemed to give him. At either side of the room stood soldiers with rifles who eyed him as he was brought inside. Blake was pushed down onto a chair that sat a distance away from the table, the men who had escorted him stepping back as their leader rose from his seat.

Circling around the table, the commander stood opposite Blake as he began to question him, mostly in English but slipping into his native tongue on occasion. The Comedian narrowed his eyes at him, sitting stubbornly silent despite the man's growing frustration that was evident on his face. It was less of loyalty and more of a selfish streak that kept Blake's lips sealed. In his mind, the outcome would be similar whether he divulged information about the mission or not. And the fact that they apparently felt that there was something of value to be had from him made Blake think they would keep him alive for a time. Blake didn't want to speculate on the prospects of a rescue, but the probability wasn't zero.

The commander moved to loom over Blake, making threats of what would occur if he didn't comply. The Comedian scoffed, turning his head to one side with a smirk, which made the commander backhand him so that his head whipped to the other. At Blake's chuckle despite his split lip, the commander hit him again, only harder and with his fist. While it did stop the Comedian's laughter, it didn't make him more cooperative. With blood and saliva welling up in his mouth from a dislodged tooth, Blake waited until the other man leaned down toward him again to bark commands before he spat squarely in the commander's face. The officer drew back, wiping his face with a hand in disgust before he kicked the chair Blake sat in, sending him to the floor on his side with a grunt. Once there, he became acquainted with the boots of several troops as they kicked him in the ribs and stomach. His attempts to shield himself weren't met with much success.

Though he was glad that the blows ended, the Comedian knew it didn't bode well when he was hoisted up and thrown over the table at the words the commander spat. He didn't realize how poorly until two men on either side of him pinned his shoulders to the table while another man began to tug his pants down his hips roughly.

"What the fuck?" Blake shouted, trying to push up off of the table. He was slammed back downward, the cool steel of a pistol against the skin of his neck making him pause in his struggles. Though he didn't understand the words the man spoke, the intention behind the gesture was crystal clear.

The Comedian's breaths were ragged as he was held securely, his cheek resting against the wood. His attention was split between the commander who spoke of 'teaching him a lesson' and the sensation of leather being tugged down around his ankles. In moments, his legs were being spread as far as they would go given how they were restrained by his clothes. The sound of the officer spitting into his hand and the sensation of fingers drawn down his flank made Blake struggled once more instinctively until the gun was pressed more firmly against the side of his neck, an order shouted into his ear. Frowning, he stilled in the grip of the men, his desire to live greater than the disgust at what they intended to do to him. He gritted his teeth at the thickness that pressed against his entrance then stifled a shout as it pushed roughly inside. The commander grunted as his pelvis came to rest at the other man's backside, hardening further at the tightness that swallowed him.

The Comedian wasn't unaccustomed to experiencing pain, though he was usually the one doling it out. He'd been injured before in fist fights and on battlefields. But this was a different type of pain, more exquisite and much more humiliating. Added to this was the unmistakable sound of pleasure as the commander used him, and what Blake imagined were encouraging words from the other men judging by their enthusiasm. He seethed as he lay there on his belly, the edge of the table biting into his groin at each thrust while he gritted his teeth.

Blake couldn't say how long the painful drag of the commander sliding in and out of him went on, but after a time the man stiffened, gripping him tightly enough to bruise. He emptied inside with a grunt, Blake wincing as he pulled out. He grimaced at the slimy sensation between his cheeks as he shifted in the grip of the men who held him. But the mixture of blood and semen didn't have much time to trickle outward before another man moved to take the commander's place.

The Comedian had heard tell of how one's mind could drift off to another place during a time of trauma as a way of protection. But his was in the here and now, the surroundings all too real. He was sure he'd remember how the scent of sex and blood and the sweat of his captors filled the air of this room, how hard the table was beneath him along with their voices mocking him in a language he didn't know. Blake hoped he would be able to add to these memories with others like the feel of sticking a blade in the commander's gut, the flow of red warm over his hand. Or the look of fear in the soldiers' eyes as he emptied rounds into their bodies. Thoughts such as these were his only comfort at this point, though a cold one they made.

There was a loud crack accompanied by a static-like sound and suddenly blue light was dancing across Blake's closed eyelids as the hairs on his arms and legs stood on end. A man screamed from somewhere behind him and suddenly Blake was released as gunfire filled the room. The Comedian slid off of the table to the floor with a grunt. He gazed to the side in time to see the remains of the last of the men hit the floor with a moist sound. Doctor Manhattan didn't seem mindful of the blood that stained the ground as he crossed the room toward the Comedian, his bare feet leaving red footprints across the wooden planks.

"I was instructed to liberate the prisoners likely on this base," Osterman informed him as he approached. "The others have already been transferred to-" He paused, canting his head. "You are injured," Doctor Manhattan noted, taking in Blake's disheveled appearance as he leaned against the leg of the table, trying to shimmy farther into his pants.

"No shit," Blake grumbled, wincing as he drew leather back up around him before using his grip on the table to heave himself upward. He grimaced, trying not to be too vocal in his pain as he made it to his feet. It was bad enough what Osterman must have seen when he'd teleported into the room.

Though what had occurred had to be obvious, Jon didn't say anything on the subject. It wasn't as though Blake had wanted any discussion about what had transpired, but the way Osterman just _stared_ at him as he stood by the table, trying to keep his footing made the Comedian seethe.

"See something interesting, Jonny-boy?" Blake asked, his face animated by anger. "What the hell are you looking at me like that for? I'm not one of your damned science projects."

"My apologies," Osterman said, his expression slightly downcast. "I meant no offense."

"Yeah, you never do, do you?" Blake remarked as he tried to stagger toward the doorway. He didn't think often about how inhuman the man seemed at times, but it irked him now for reasons that he couldn't really name.

The Comedian didn't get far before his legs buckled under him, but suddenly there was a strong grip under his shoulders to haul him upward again. Angry, Blake shoved Jon away, teetering unsteadily but somehow keeping his footing as he glared at the other man.

"Don't _touch_ me, alright?" the Comedian told him. The look of mild confusion on Osterman's face only made things worse. "And don't apologize again," he added as Jon opened his mouth to speak. Blake cursed at no one in particular as he stood in the middle of the floor, the gore of enemy soldiers at his feet. Though Blake couldn't help his anger at the situation, he knew that it was far better that it was Osterman who had found him as opposed to a unit of troops. It wasn't like he was going to spread the information around, though the way Jon looked at him like he was some curiosity was unnerving.

The Comedian gazed upward as Osterman approached. Then the world was blurring before Blake's eyes and his stomach lurched. Jon had teleported the two of them back to friendly territory just in time for Blake to bend double and vomit, Osterman's grip on him the only thing that kept Blake from falling to his knees in it.

"You usually have no ill effects from this," Jon noted, stopping short of adding an apology that he knew would make the other man annoyed again.

"It usually doesn't bother me, but today, well," the Comedian trailed off, managing to straighten upward.

"I would offer to transport you to the medical unit, but you would refuse," Doctor Manhattan stated.

"Yeah, no medics. I'll make it," Blake told him. An awkward silence fell over them for a few moments until Blake broke it. "Eh, didn't thank you back there, did I?" he remarked, rubbing the back of his neck absently.

"Thanks are unnecessary among comrades at arms," Osterman told him. The faint smile on his face softened what would be an expressionless gaze.

"Yeah, I suppose so," Blake answered. He grinned despite himself. "I'd tell you 'I owe you one,' but what kind of favors can you do for a guy who can create anything he wants out of rocks and dirt?"

"That is a good point," Jon replied, faintly glowing eyes trained on the other man.

 

End


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